The Lights and Shadows of Real Life

PART FIRST.

“HOW beautiful!” ejaculated Mary Graham, as she fixed her eyes intently on the western sky, rich with the many-coloured clouds of a brilliant sunset in June.

“Beautiful indeed!” responded her sister Anna.

“I could gaze on it for ever!” Ellen, a younger and more enthusiastic sister remarked, with fervent admiration.  “Look, Ma! was ever anything more gorgeous than that pure white cloud, fringed with brilliant gold, and relieved by the translucent and sparkling sky beyond?”

“It is indeed very beautiful, Ellen,” Mrs. Graham replied.  But there was an abstraction in her manner, that indicated, too plainly, that something weighed upon her mind.

“You don’t seem to enjoy a rich sunset as much as you used to do, Ma,” Anna said, for she felt the tone and manner in which her mother had expressed her admiration of the scene.

“You only think so, perhaps,” Mrs. Graham rejoined, endeavouring to arouse herself, and to feel interested in the brilliant exhibition of nature to which her daughter had alluded.  “The scene is, indeed, very beautiful, Anna, and reminds me strongly of some of Wordsworth’s exquisite descriptions, so full of power to awaken the heart’s deepest and purest emotions.  You all remember this: 

  “’Calm is the evening air, and loth to lose
  Day’s grateful warmth, though moist with falling dews
  Look for the stars, you’ll say that there are none;
  Look up a second time, and, one by one,
  You mark them twinkling out with silvery light,
  And wonder how they could elude the sight.’”

“And this: 

  “’No sound is uttered,—­but a deep
  And solemn harmony pervades
  The hollow vale from steep to steep,
  And penetrates the glades. 
  Far distant images draw nigh,
  Called forth by wondrous potency
  Of beamy radiance, that imbues
  Whate’er it strikes with gem-like hues! 
  In vision exquisitely clear,
  Herds range along the mountain-side;
  And glistening antlers are descried;
  And gilded flocks appear. 
  Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve! 
  But long as god-like wish, or hope divine,
  Informs my spirit, ne’er can I believe
  That this magnificence is wholly thine! 
  From worlds not quickened by the sun
  A portion of the gift is won.’”

“How calm and elevating to the heart, like the hour he describes,” Ellen said, in a musing tone, as she sat with her eyes fixed intently on the slow-fading glories of the many-coloured clouds.

The influence of the tranquil hour gradually subdued them into silence; and as the twilight began to fall, each sat in the enjoyment of a pure and refined pleasure, consequent upon a true appreciation of the beautiful in nature, combined with highly cultivated tastes, and innocent and elevated thoughts.

“There comes Pa, I believe,” Anna remarked, breaking the silence, as the hall door opened and then closed with a heavy jar; and the well-known sound of her father’s footsteps was heard along the passage and on the stairs.

None of her children observed the hushed intensity with which Mrs. Graham listened, as their father ascended to the chamber.  But they noticed that she became silent and more thoughtful than at first.  In about ten minutes she arose and left the room.

“Something seems to trouble Ma, of late,” Ellen observed, as soon as their mother had retired.

“So I have thought.  She is certainly, to all appearance, less cheerful, “Mary replied.

“What can be the cause of it?”

“I hardly think there can be any very serious cause.  We are none of us always in the same state of mind.”

“But I have noticed a change, in Ma, for some months past—­and particularly in the last few weeks,” Anna said.  “She is not happy.”

“I remember, now, that I overheard her, about six weeks ago, talking to Alfred about something—­the company he kept, I believe—­and that he seemed angry, and spoke to her, I thought, unkindly.  Since that time she has not seemed so cheerful;” Ellen said.

“That may be the cause; but still I hardly think that it is,” Anna replied.  “Alfred’s principal associates are William Gray and Charles Williams; and they belong to our first families.  Pa, you know, is very intimate with both Mr. Gray and Mr. Williams.”

“It was to William Gray and Charles Williams, I believe, however, that Ma particularly objected.”

“Upon what ground?”

“Upon the ground of their habits, I think, she said.”

“Their habits?  What of their habits, I wonder?”

“I do not know, I am sure.  I only remember having heard Ma object to them on that account.”

“That is strange!” was the remark of Anna.  “I am sure that I have never seen anything out of the way, in either of them; and, as to William Gray, I have always esteemed him very highly.”

“So have I,” Mary said.  “Both of them are intelligent, agreeable young men; and such, as it seems to me, are in every way fitted to be companions for our brother.”

But Mrs. Graham had seen more of the world than her daughters, and knew how to judge from appearances far better than they.  Some recent circumstances, likewise, had quickened her perceptions of danger, and made them doubly acute.  In the two young men alluded to, now about the ages of eighteen and twenty, she had been pained to observe strong indications of a growing want of strict moral restraints, combined with a tendency towards dissipation; and, what was still more painful, an exhibition of like perversions in her only son, now on the verge of manhood,—­that deeply responsible and dangerous period, when parental authority and control subside in a degree, and the individual, inexperienced yet self-confident, assumes the task of guiding himself.

When Mrs. Graham left the room, she proceeded slowly up to the chamber into which her husband had gone, where all had been silent since his entrance.  She found him lying upon the bed, and already in a sound sleep.  The moment she bent over him, she perceived the truth to be that which her trembling and sinking heart so much dreaded.  He was intoxicated!

Shrinking away from the bed-side, she retired to a far corner of the room, where she seated herself by a table, and burying her face in her arms, gave way to the most gloomy, heart-aching thoughts and feelings.  Tears brought her no relief from these; for something of hopelessness in her sorrow, gave no room for the blessing of tears.

Mr. Graham was a merchant of high standing in Philadelphia, where, for many years, he had been engaged extensively in the East India trade.  Six beautiful ships floated for years upon the ocean, returning at regular intervals, freighted with the rich produce of the East, and filling his coffers, until they overflowed, with accumulating wealth.  But it was not wealth alone that gave to Mr. Graham the elevated social position that he held.  His strong intelligence, and the high moral tone of his character, gave him an influence and an estimation far above what he derived from his great riches.  In the education of his children, four in number, he had been governed by a wise regard to the effect which that education would have upon them as members of society.  He early instilled into their minds a desire to be useful to others, and taught them the difference between an estimation of individuals, founded upon their wealth and position in society, and an estimation derived from intrinsic excellence of character.  The consequence of, all this was, to make him beloved by his family—­purely and tenderly beloved, because there was added to the natural affection for one in his position, the power of a deep respect for his character and principles.

At the time of his introduction to the reader, Mr. Graham was forty-five years old.  Alfred, his oldest child, was twenty-one; Mary, nineteen; Ellen, eighteen; and Anna just entering her sixteenth year.  Up to this time, or nearly to this time, a happier family circled no hearth in the city.  But now an evil wing was hovering over them, the shadow from which had already been perceived by the mother’s heart, as it fell coldly and darkly upon it, causing it to shrink and tremble with gloomy apprehensions.  From early manhood up, it had been the custom of Mr. Graham to use wines and brandies as liberally as he desired, without, the most remote suspicion once crossing his mind that any danger to him could attend the indulgence.  But to the eye of his wife, whose suspicions had of late been aroused, and her perceptions rendered, in consequence, doubly acute, it had become apparent that the habit was gaining a fatal predominance over him.  She noted, with painful emotions, that as each evening returned, there were to her eye too evident indications that he had been indulging so freely in the use of liquors, as to have his mind greatly obscured.  His disposition, too, was changing; and he was becoming less cheerful in his family, and less interested in the pleasures and pursuits of his children.  Alfred, whom he had, up to this time, regarded with an earnest and careful solicitude, was now almost entirely left to his own guidance, at an age, too, when he needed more than ever the direction of his father’s matured experience.

All these exhibitions of a change so unlooked for, and so terrible for a wife and mother to contemplate, might well depress the spirits of Mrs. Graham, and fill her with deep and anxious solicitude.  For some weeks previous to the evening on which our story opens, Mr. Graham had shown strong symptoms almost every day—­symptoms apparent, however, in the family, only to the eye of his wife—­of drunkenness.  Towards the close of each day, as the hour for his return from business drew near her feelings would become oppressed under the fearful apprehension that when he came home, it would be in a state of intoxication.  This she dreaded on many accounts.  Particularly was she anxious to conceal the father’s aberrations from his children.  She could not bear the thought that respect for one now so deeply honoured by them, should be diminished in their bosoms.  She felt, too, keenly, the reproach that would rest upon his name, should the vice that was now entangling, obtain full possession of him, and entirely destroy his manly, rational freedom of action.  Of consequences to herself and children, resulting from changed external circumstances, she did not dream.  Her husband’s wealth was immense; and, therefore, even if he should so far abandon himself as to have to relinquish business, there would be enough, and more than enough, to sustain them in any position in society they might choose to occupy.

On the occasion to which we have already referred, her heart was throbbing with suspense as the hour drew nigh for his return, when, sooner than she expected him, Mr. Graham opened the hall-door, and instead of entering the parlour, as usual, proceeded at once to his chamber.  The quick ear of his wife detected something wrong in the sound of his footsteps—­the cause she knew too well.  Oh, how deeply wretched she felt, though she strove all in her power to seem unmoved while in the presence of her children!  Anxious to know the worst, she soon retired, as has been seen, from the parlours, and went up to the chamber above.  Alas! how sadly were her worst fears realized!  The loved and honoured partner of many happy years, the father of her children, lay before her, slumbering, heavily, in the sleep of intoxication.  It seemed, for a time, as if she could not bear up under the trial.  While seated, far from the bed-side, brooding in sad despondency over the evil that had fallen upon them—­an evil of such a character that it had never been feared—­it seemed to her that she could not endure it.  Her thoughts grew bewildered, and reason for a time seemed trembling.  Then her mind settled into a gloomy calmness that, was even more terrible, for it had about it something approaching the hopelessness of despair.

Thoughts of her children at last aroused her, as the gathering night darkened the chamber in which she sat, and she endeavoured to rally herself, and to assume a calmness that she was far from feeling.  A reason would have to be given for the father’s non-appearance at the tea-table.  That could easily be done.  Fatigue and a slight indisposition had caused him to lie down:  and as he had fallen asleep, it was thought best not to awaken him.  Such a tale was readily told, and as readily received.  The hardest task was to school her feelings into submission, and so control the expression of her face, and the tone of her voice, as to cause none to suspect that there was anything wrong.

To do this fully, however, was impossible.  Her manner was too evidently changed; and her face wore too dreamy and sad an expression to deceive her daughters, who inquired, with much tenderness and solicitude, whether she was not well, or whether anything troubled her.

“I am only a little indisposed,” was her evasive reply to her children’s kind interrogatories.

“Can’t I do something for you?” inquired Ellen, with an earnest affection in her manner.

“No, dear,” was her mother’s brief response; and then followed a silence, oppressive to all, which remained unbroken until the tea things were removed.

“Alfred is again away at tea-time,” Mrs. Graham at length said, as they all arose from the table.

“He went out this afternoon with Charles Williams,” Mary replied.

“Did he?” the mother rejoined quickly, and with something of displeasure in her tone.

“Yes.  Charles called for him in his buggy about four o’clock, and they rode out together.  I thought you knew it.”

“No.  I was lying down about that time.”

“You do not seem to like Charles Williams much.”

“I certainly do not, Anna, as a companion for Alfred.  He is too fond of pleasure and sporting, and I am very much afraid will lead your brother astray.”

“I never saw anything wrong about him, Ma.”

“Perhaps not.  But I have learned to be a much closer observer in these matters than you, Mary.  I have seen too many young men at Alfred’s age led away, not to feel a deep and careful solicitude for him.”

As the subject seemed to give their mother pain, her daughters did not reply; and then another, and still more troubled silence followed.

A chill being thrown thus over the feelings of all, the family separated at an early hour.  But Mrs. Graham did not retire to bed.  She could not, for she was strangely uneasy about her son.  It was about twelve o’clock when Alfred came in.  His mother opened her door as he passed it, to speak to him—­but her tongue refused to give utterance to the words that trembled upon it.  He, too, was intoxicated!

Brief were the hours given to sleep that night, and troubled the slumber that locked her senses in forgetfulness.  On the next morning, the trembling hand of her husband, as he lifted his cup to his lips, and the unrefreshed and jaded appearance of her son, told but too plainly their abuse of nature’s best energies.  With her husband, Mrs. Graham could not bring herself to speak upon the subject.  But she felt that her duty as a mother was involved in regard to her son, and therefore she early took occasion to draw him aside, and remonstrate against the course of folly upon which he was entering.

“You were out late last night, Alfred,” she said, in a mild tone.

“I was in at twelve, Ma.”

“But that was too late, Alfred.”

“I don’t know, Ma.  Other young men are out as late, and even later, every night,” the young man said, in a respectful tone.  “I rode out with Charles Williams in the afternoon, and then went with him to a wine party at night.”

“I must tell you frankly, Alfred, that I like neither your companion in the afternoon, nor your company in the evening.”

“You certainly do not object to Charles Williams.  He stands as high in society as I do.”

“His family is one of respectability and standing.  But his habits, I fear, Alfred, are such as will, ere long, destroy all of his title to respectful estimation.”

“You judge harshly,” the young man said, colouring deeply.

“I believe not, Alfred.  And what is more, I am convinced that you stand in imminent danger from your association with him.”

“How?” was the quick interrogatory.

“Through him, for instance, you were induced to go to a wine party last night.”

“Well?”

“And there induced to drink too much.”

“Mother!”

“I saw you when you came in, Alfred.  You were in a sad condition.”

For a few moments the young man looked his mother in the face, while an expression of grief and mortification passed over his own.

“It is true,” he at length said, in a subdued tone, “that I did drink to excess, last evening.  But do not be alarmed on that account.  I will be more guarded, in future.  And let me now assure you, most earnestly, that I am in no danger:  that I am not fond of wine.  I was led to drink too much, last evening, from being in a company where wine was circulated as freely as water.  I thought you looked troubled, this morning, but did not dream that it was on my account.  Let me, then, urge you to banish from your mind all fears in regard to me.”

“I cannot banish such fears, my son, so long as I know that you have dangerous associates.  No one is led off, no one is corrupted suddenly.”

“But I do not think that I have dangerous associates.”

“I am sure you have, Alfred.  If they had not been such, you would not have been led astray, last night.  Go not into the way of temptation.  Shun the very beginnings of evil.  Remember Pope’s warning declaration:—­

“‘Vice, to be hated, needs but to be seen,’ &c.”

“Indeed, indeed, Ma, you are far too serious about this matter.”

“No, my son, I cannot be!”

“Well, perhaps not.  But, as I know the nature of my associations far better than you possibly can, you must pardon me for thinking that they involve no danger.  I have arrived to years of discretion, and certainly think that I am, or at least ought to be, able to judge for my self.”

There was that in the words and tone of the young man, that made the mother feel conscious that it would be no use for her to urge the matter further, at that time.  She merely replied—­

“For your mother’s sake, Alfred, guard yourself more carefully, in future.”

It is wonderful, sometimes, how rapidly a downward course is run.  The barrier, against which the waters have been driven for years, is rapidly washed away, so soon as even the smallest breach is made.  A breach had been made in Mr. Graham’s resolution to be only a sober drinker of intoxicating liquors; and the consequence was, that he had less power to resist the strong inclination to drink, that had become almost like a second nature to him.  A few weeks only elapsed, before he came home so drunk as to expose himself in the street, and before his children and servants, in a most disgusting and degrading manner.

Terrible indeed was the shock to his children—­especially to Mary, Ellen and Anna.  His sudden death could not have been a more fearful affliction.  Then, they would have sorrowed in filial respect and esteem, made sacred by an event that would embalm the memory of their father in the permanent regard of a whole community:  now, he stood degraded in their eyes; and they felt that he was degraded in the eyes of all.  In his presence they experienced restraint, and they looked for his coming with a shrinking fear.  It was, indeed, an awful affliction—­such as few can realize in imagination; and especially for them, as they occupied a conspicuous position in society, and were conscious that all eyes were upon them, and that all tongues would be busy with the story of their father’s degradation.

It is wonderful, we have said, how rapidly a downward course is sometimes run.  In the case of Mr. Graham, many circumstances combined to hasten his ruin.  It was nearly a year after he had given way to the regular indulgence of drink, so far as to be kept almost constantly in a state of half-intoxication through the business hours of almost every day, that he received news of the loss of a vessel richly laden with teas from China.  At the proper time he presented the requisite documents to his underwriters, and claimed the loss, amounting, on ship and cargo, to one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars.  On account of alleged improper conduct on the part of the captain, united with informality in the papers, the underwriters refused to pay the loss.  A suit at law was the consequence, in which the underwriters were sustained.  An appeal was made, but the same result followed-thus sweeping away, at a single blow, property to the amount of over one hundred thousand dollars.  During the progress of the trial, Mr. Graham was much excited, and drank more freely than ever.  When the result was finally ascertained, he sank down into a kind of morose inactivity for some months, neglecting his large and important business, and indulging, during the time, more deeply than ever in his favourite potations.  It was in vain that his distressed family endeavoured to rouse him into activity.  All their efforts were met by an irritability and a moroseness of temper so unlike what he had been used to exhibit towards them, that they gave up all idea of influencing him in despair.

A second heavy loss, of nearly equal amount, altogether consequent upon this neglect of business, seemed to awaken up the latent energies of his character, and he returned to himself with something of his former clear-sighted energy of character.  But his affairs had already become, to him, strangely entangled.  The machinery of his extensive operations had been interrupted; and now, in attempting to make the wheels move on again, it was too apparent that much of it had become deranged, and the parts no longer moved in harmonious action with the whole.  The more these difficulties pressed upon him, the deeper did he drink, as a kind of relief, and, in consequence, the more unfit to extricate himself from his troubles did he become.  Every struggle, like the efforts of a large animal in a quagmire, only tended to involve him deeper and deeper in inextricable embarrassment.

This downward tendency continued for about three years, when his family was suddenly stunned by the shock of his failure.  It seemed impossible for them to realize the truth—­and, indeed, almost impossible for the whole community to realize it.  It was only three or four years previous that his wealth was estimated, and truly so, at a million and a half.  He was known to have met with heavy losses, but where so much could have gone, puzzled every one.  It seems almost incredible that any man could have run through such an estate by mismanagement, in so brief a period.  But such was really the case.  Accustomed to heavy operations, he continued to engage in only the most liberal transactions, every loss in which was a matter of serious moment.  And towards the last, as his mind grew more and more bewildered in consequence of is drinking deeper and deeper, he scarcely got up a single voyage, that did not result in loss; until, finally, he was driven to an utter abandonment of business—­but not until he had involved his whole estate in ruin.

The beautiful family mansion on Chestnut-street had to be given up—­the carriage and elegant furniture sold under the hammer, while the family retired, overwhelmed with distress, to an humble dwelling in an obscure part of the city.

Seven years from the day on which Mrs. Graham and her children were thus thrown suddenly down from their elevation, and driven into obscurity, that lady sat alone, near the window of a meanly-furnished room in a house on the suburbs of the city, overlooking the Schuylkill.  It was near the hour of sunset.  Gradually the day declined, and the dusky shadows of evening fell gloomily around.  Still Mrs. Graham sat leaning her head upon her hand, in deep abstraction of mind.  Alas! seven years had wrought a sad change in her appearance, and a sadder one in her feelings.  Her deeply-sunken eye, and pale, thin face, told a tale of wretchedness and suffering, whose silent appeal made the very heart ache.  Her garments, too, were old and faded, and antiquated in style.

She sat thus for about half-an-hour, when the door of the room was opened slowly, and a young woman entered, carrying on her arm a small basket.  She seemed, at first sight, not over twenty-three or four years of age; but, when observed more closely, her hollow cheek, pale face, and languid motions, indicated the passage of either many more years over her head, or the painful inroads of disease and sorrow.  Mrs. Graham looked up, but did not speak, as the young woman entered, and, after placing her basket on a table, laid aside her bonnet and faded shawl.

“How did you find Ellen, to-day?” she at length said.

“Bad enough!” was the mournful reply.  “It makes my heart ache, Ma, whenever I go to see her.”

“Was her husband at home?”

“Yes, and as drunk and ill-natured as ever.”

“How is the babe, Mary?”

“Not well.  Dear little innocent creature! it has seen the light of this dreary world in an evil time.  Ellen has scarcely any milk for it; and I could not get it to feed, try all I could.  It nestles in her breast, and frets and cries almost incessantly, with pain and hunger.  Although it is now six weeks old, yet Ellen seems to have gained scarcely any strength at all.  She has no appetite, and creeps about with the utmost difficulty.  With three little children hanging about her, and the youngest that helpless babe, her condition is wretched indeed.  It would be bad enough, were her husband kind to her.  But cross, drunken and idle, scarcely furnishing his family with food enough to sustain existence, her life with him is one of painful trial and suffering.  Indeed, I wonder, with her sensitive disposition and delicate body, how she can endure such a life for a week.”

A deep sigh, or rather moan, was the mother’s only response.  Her daughter continued,

“Bad as I myself feel with this constant cough, pain in my side, and weakness, I must go over again to-morrow and stay with her.  She ought not to be left alone.  The dear children, too, require a great deal of attention that she cannot possibly give to them.”

“You had better bring little Ellen home with you, had you not, Mary?  I could attend to her much better than Ellen can.”

“I was thinking of that myself, Ma.  But you seemed so poorly, that I did not feel like saying anything about it just now.”

“O yes.  Bring her home with you to-morrow evening, by all means.  It will take that much off of poor Ellen’s hands.”

“Then I will do so, Ma; at least if Ellen is willing,” Mary said, in a lighter tone—­the idea of even that relief being extended to her overburdened sister causing her mind to rise in a momentary buoyancy.

“Anna is late to-night,” she remarked, after a pause of a few moments.

As she said this, the door opened, and the sister of whom she spoke entered.

“You are late to-night, Anna,” her mother said.

“Yes, rather later than usual.  I had to take a few small articles home for a lady, after I left the store, who lives in Sixth near Spring Garden.”

“In Sixth near Spring Garden!”

“Yes.  The lad who takes home goods had gone, and the lady was particular about having them sent home this evening.”

“Do you not feel very tired?”

“Indeed I do,” the poor girl said, sinking into a chair.  “I feel, sometimes, as if I must give up.  No one in our store is allowed to sit down from morning till night.  The other girls don’t appear to mind it much; but before evening, it seems as if I must drop to the floor.  But I won’t complain,” she added, endeavouring to rally herself, and put on a cheerful countenance.  “How have you been to-day, Ma?”

“If you won’t complain, I am sure that I have no right to, Anna.”

“You cannot be happy, of course, Ma; that I know too well.  None of us, I fear, will ever be again happy in this world!” Anna said, in a tone of despondency, her spirits again sinking.

No one replied to this; and a gloomy silence of many minutes followed—­a quiet almost as oppressive as the stillness that reigns in the chamber of death.  Then Mary commenced busying herself about the evening meal.

“Tea is ready, Ma and Anna,” she at length said, after their frugal repast had been placed upon the table.

“Has not Alfred returned yet?” Anna asked.

“No,” was the brief answer.

“Hadn’t we better wait for him?”

“He knows that it is tea-time, and ought to be here, if he wants any,” the mother said.  “You are tired and hungry, and we will not, of course, wait.”

The little family, three in number, gathered around the table, but no one eat with an appetite of the food that was placed before them.  There were two vacant places at the board.  The husband and son—­the father and brother—­where were they?

In regard to the former, the presentation of a scene which occurred a few weeks previous will explain all.  First, however, a brief review of the past seven years is necessary.  After Mr. Graham’s failure in business, he gave himself up to drink, and sunk, with his whole family, down into want and obscurity with almost unprecedented rapidity.  He seemed at once to become strangely indifferent to his wife and children—­to lose all regard for their welfare.  In fact, he had become, in a degree, insane from the sudden reverses which had overtaken him, combined with the bewildering effects of strong drinks, under whose influence he was constantly labouring.

Thus left to struggle on against the pressure of absolute want, suddenly and unexpectedly brought upon them, and with no internal or external resources upon which to fall promptly back, Mrs. Graham and her daughters were for a time overwhelmed with despair.  Alfred, to whom they should have looked for aid, advice, and sustenance, in this hour of severe trial, left almost entirely to himself, as far as his father had been concerned, for some two years, had sunk into habits of dissipation from which even this terrible shock had not the power to arouse him.  Having made himself angry in his opposition to, and resistance of, all his mother’s admonitions, warnings, and persuasions, he seemed to have lost all affection for her and his sisters.  So that a sense of their destitute and distressed condition had no influence over him—­at least, not sufficient to arouse him into active exertions for their support.  Thus were they left utterly dependent upon their own resources—­and what was worse, were burdened with the support of both father and brother.

The little that each had been able to save from the general wreck, was, as a means of sustenance, but small.  Two or three gold watches and chains, with various articles of (sic) jewelery, fancy work-boxes, and a number of trifles, more valued than valuable, made up, besides a remnant of household furniture, the aggregate of their little wealth.  Of course, the mother and daughters were driven, at once, to some expedient for keeping the family together.  A boarding-house, that first resort of nearly all destitute females, upon whom families are dependent, especially of those who have occupied an elevated position in society, was opened, as the only means of support that presented itself.  The result of this experiment, continued for a year and a half, was a debt of several hundred dollars, which was liquidated by the seizure of Mrs. Graham’s furniture.  But worse than this, a specious young man, one of the boarders, had won upon the affections of Ellen, and induced her to marry him.  He, too soon, proved himself to have neither a true affection for her, nor to have sound moral principles.  He was, moreover, idle, and fond of gay company.

On the day that Mrs. Graham broke up her boardinghouse, Markland, her daughter’s husband, was discharged from his situation as clerk, on account of inefficiency.  For six months previous, the time he had been married, he had paid no boarding, thus adding himself as a dead weight to the already overburdened family.  As he had no house to which he could take Ellen, he very naturally felt himself authorized to share the house to which the distressed family of her mother retired, seemingly regardless of how or by whom the food he daily consumed was provided.

But Mrs. Graham was soon reduced to such extremities, that he was driven off from her, with his wife, and forced to obtain employment by which to support himself and her.  As for the old man, he had managed, in the wreck of affairs, to retain a large proportion of his wines, and other choice liquors; and these, which no pressure of want in his family could drive him to sell, afforded the means of gratifying his inordinate love of drink.  His clothes gradually became old and rusty—­but this seemed to give him no concern.  He wandered listlessly in his old business haunts, or lounged about the house in a state of half stupor, drinking regularly all through the day, at frequent periods, and going to bed, usually, at nights, in a state of stupefaction.

When the boarding-house was given up, poor Mrs. Graham, whose health and spirits had both rapidly declined in the past two years, felt utterly at a loss what to do.  But pressing necessities required immediate action.

“Anna, child, what are we to do,” she said, rousing herself, one evening, while sitting alone with her daughters in gloomy abstraction.

“Indeed, Ma, I am as much at a loss as you are.  I have been thinking and thinking about it, until my min—­has become beclouded and bewildered.”

“I have been thinking, too,” said Mary, “and it strikes me that Anna and I might do something in the way of ornamental needlework.  Both of us, you know, are fond of it.”

“Do you think that we can sell it, after it is done?” Anna asked, with a lively interest in her tone.

“I certainly do.  We see plenty of such work in the shops; and they must buy it, of course.”

“Let us try, then, Mary,” her sister said with animation.

A week spent in untiring industry, produced two elegantly wrought capes, equal to the finest French embroidery.

“And, now, where shall we sell them?” Anna inquired, in a tone of concern.

“Mrs.—­would, no doubt, buy them; but I, for one, cannot bear the thought of going there.”

“Nor I. But, driven by necessity, I believe that I could brave to go there, or anywhere else, even though I have not been in Chestnut-street for nearly two years.”

“Will you go, then, Mary?” Anna asked, in an earnest, appealing tone.

“Yes, Anna, as you seem so shrinkingly reluctant, I will go.”

And forthwith Mary prepared herself; and rolling up the two elegant capes, proceeded with them to the store of Mrs.—­, in Chestnut-street.  It was crowded with customers when she entered, and so she shrunk away to the back part of the store, until Mrs.—­should be more at leisure, and she could bargain with her without attracting attention.  She had stood there only a few moments,—­when her ear caught the sound of a familiar voice—­that of Mary Williams, one of her former most intimate associates.  Her first impulse was to spring forward, but a remembrance of her changed condition instantly recurring to her, she turned more away from the light, so as to effectually conceal herself from the young lady’s observation.  This she was enabled to do, although Mary Williams came once or twice so near as to brush her garments.  How oppressively did her heart beat, at such moments!  Old thoughts and old feelings came rushing back upon her, and in the contrast they occasioned between the past and the present, she was almost overwhelmed with despondency.  Customer after customer came in, as one and another retired, many of whose faces were familiar to Mary as old friends and acquaintances.  At last, however, after waiting nearly two hours, she made out to get an interview with Mrs.—.

“Well, Miss, what do you want?” asked that personage, as Mary came up before her where she still stood at the counter, for she had observed her waiting in the store for some time.  Mrs.—­either did not remember, or cared not to remember, her old customer, who had spent, with her sisters, many hundreds of dollars in her store, in times past.

“I have a couple of fine wrought capes that I should like to sell,” Mary said, in a timid, hesitating voice, unrolling, at the same time, the articles she named.

“Are they French?” asked Mrs.—­, without pausing in her employment of rolling up some goods, to take and examine the articles proffered her.

“No, ma’am; they are some of my own and sister’s work.”

“They won’t do, then, Miss.  Nothing in the way of fine collars and capes will sell, unless they are French.”

Mary felt chilled at heart as Mrs.—­said this, and commenced slowly rolling up her capes, faint with disappointment.  As she was about turning from the counter, Mrs.—­said, in rather an indifferent tone,

“Suppose you let me look at them.”

“I am sure you will think them very beautiful,” Mary replied, quickly unrolling her little bundle.  “They have been wrought with great care.”’

“Sure enough, they are quite well done,” Mrs.—­said, coldly, as she glanced her eyes over the capes.  “Almost equal in appearance to the French.  But they are only domestic; and domestic embroidered work won’t bring scarcely anything.  What do you ask for these?”

“We have set no price upon them; but think that they are richly worth five or six dollars apiece.”

“Five or six dollars!” ejaculated Mrs.—­, in well feigned surprise, handing back; suddenly, the capes.  “O! no, Miss;—­American goods don’t bring arty such prices.”

“Then what will you give for them, Madam?”

“If you feel like taking two dollars apiece for them, you can leave them.  But I am not particular,” Mrs.—­said, in a careless tone.

“Two dollars!” repeated Mary, in surprise.  “Surely, Mrs.—­, they are worth more than two dollars apiece!”

“I’m not at all anxious to give you even that for them,” said Mrs.—.  “Not at all; for I am by no means sure that I shall ever get my money back again.”

“You will have to take them, then, I suppose,” Mary replied, in a disappointed and desponding tone.

“Very well, Miss, I will give you what I said.”  And Mrs.—­took the capes, and handed Mary Graham four dollars in payment.

“If we should conclude to work any more, may we calculate on getting the same money for them?”

“I can’t say positively, Miss; but I think that you may calculate on that price for as many as you will bring.”

Mary took the money, and turned away.  It was only half an hour after, that Mrs.—­sold one of them, as “French,” for twelve dollars!

Sadly, indeed, were the sisters disappointed at this result.  But nothing better offering that they could do, they devoted themselves, late and early, to their needles, the proceeds of which rarely went over five dollars per week; for two years they continued to labour thus.

At the end of that period, Anna sunk under her self-imposed task, and lay ill for many weeks.  Especially forbidden by the physician, on her recovery, to enter again upon sedentary employments, Anna cast earnestly about her for some other means whereby to earn something for the common stock.  Necessity, during the past two years, had driven her frequently into business parts of the city for the purchase of materials such as they used.  Her changed lot gave her new eyes, and her observations were necessarily made upon a new class of facts.  She had seen shop-girls often enough before, but she had never felt any sympathy with them, nor thought of gaining any information about them.  They might receive one dollar a week, or twenty, or work for nothing—­it was all the same to her.  Even if any one had given her correct information on the subject, she would have forgotten it in ten minutes.  But now, it was a matter of interest to know how much they could make—­and she had obtained a knowledge of the fact, that they earned from three to six and seven dollars a week, according to their capacities or the responsibility of their stations.

When, therefore, her shattered health precluded her from longer plying her needle, much as she shrank from the publicity and exposure of the position, she resolutely set about endeavouring to obtain a situation as saleswoman in some retail dry-goods store.  One of the girls in Mrs.—­’s store, who knew all about her family, and deeply commiserated her condition, interested herself for her, and succeeded in getting her a situation, at four dollars a week, in Second-street.  To enter upon the employment that now awaited her, was indeed a severe trial; but she went resolutely forward, in the way that duty called.

The sudden change from a sedentary life to one of activity, where she had to be on her feet all day, tried her feeble strength severely.  It was with difficulty that she could sometimes keep up at all, and she went home frequently at night in a burning fever.  But she gradually acquired a kind of power of endurance, that kept her up.  She did not seem to suffer less, but had more strength, as it were, to bear up, and hold on with unflinching resolution.

Thus she had gone on for two or three years, at the time she was again introduced, with her mother and sister, to the reader.

As for their father, his whole stock of liquors had been exhausted for nearly two years, and, during that time, he had resorted to many expedients to obtain the potations he so much loved.  Finally, he became so lost to all sense of right or feeling, that he would take money, or anything he could carry off from the house, for the purpose of obtaining liquor.  This system had stripped them of many necessary articles, as well as money, and added very greatly to their distress, as well as embarrassments.

At last, everything that he could take had been taken, and as neither his wife nor daughters would give him any money, his supply of stimulus was cut off, and he became almost mad with the intolerable desire that was burning within him for the fiery poison which had robbed him of rationality and freedom.

“Give me some money!” he said, in an excited tone, to his wife, coming in hurriedly from the street, one day about this time.  His face was dark and red, as if there were a congestion of the blood in the veins of the skin, while his hands trembled, and his whole frame was strongly agitated.  Those who had been familiar with that old man, years before, would hardly have recognized him now, in his old worn and faded garments.

“I have no money for you,” his wife replied.  “You have already stripped us of nearly everything.”

“Buy me some brandy, then.”

“No.  I cannot do that either.  Brandy has cursed you and your family.  Why do you not abandon it for ever?”

“I must have brandy, or die!  Give me something to drink, in the name of heaven!”

The wild look that her husband threw upon her, alarmed Mrs. Graham, and she hesitated no longer, but handed him a small piece of money.  Quick as thought, he turned away and darted from the house.

It was, perhaps, after the lapse of about half an hour that he returned.  He opened the door, when he did so, quietly, and stood looking into the room for a few moments.  Then he turned his head quickly from the right to the left, glancing fearfully behind him once or twice.  In a moment or two afterwards he started forward, with a strong expression of alarm upon his countenance, and seated himself close beside Mrs. Graham, evidently in the hope of receiving her protection from some dreaded evil.

“What is the matter?” quickly exclaimed Mrs. Graham, starting up with a frightened look.

“It is really dreadful!” he said.  “What can it all mean?”

“What is dreadful?” asked his wife, her heart throbbing with an unknown terror.

“There!  Did you ever see such an awful sight?  Ugh!” and he shrunk behind her chair, and covered his eyes with his hands.

“I see nothing, Mr. Graham,” his wife said, after a few moments of hurried thought, in which she began to comprehend the fact that her husband’s mind was wandering.

“There is nothing here that will hurt you, father,” Mary added, coming up to him, as her own mind arrived at a conclusion similar to her mother’s.

“Nothing to hurt me!” suddenly screamed the old man, springing to his feet, and throwing himself backwards half across the room; “and that horrible creature already twining himself about my neck, and strangling me!  Take it off! take it off!” he continued, in a wild cry of terror, making strong efforts to tear something away from his throat.

“Take it off’!  Why don’t you take it off!  Don’t you see that it is choking me to death!  Oh! oh! oh!” (uttered in a terrific scream.)

Panting, screaming and struggling, he continued in this state of awful alarm, vainly endeavouring to extricate himself from the toils of an imaginary monster, that was suffocating him, until he sank exhausted to the floor.

Happily for his alarmed and distressed family, two or three neighbours, who had been startled by the old man’s screams,—­came hurriedly in, and soon comprehended the nature of his aberration.  A brief consultation among themselves determined them, understanding, as they did perfectly, the condition of the family, and his relation to them, to remove him at once to the Alms-House, where he could get judicious medical treatment, and be out of the sight and hearing of his wife and children.

One of them briefly explained to Mrs. Graham, and Mary, the nature of his mental affection, and the absolute necessity that there was for his being placed where the most skilful and judicious management of his case could be had.  After some time, he gained their reluctant consent to have him taken to the Alms-House.  A carriage was then obtained, and he forced into it, amid the tears and remonstrances of the wife and daughter, who had already repented of their acquiescence in what their judgment had approved.  Old affection had rushed back upon their hearts, and feelings became stronger than reason.

It was about four o’clock in the afternoon when this occurred.  Early on the next morning, Mrs. Graham, with Mary and Anna, went out to see him.  Their inquiries about his condition were vaguely answered, and with seeming reluctance, or as it appeared to them, with indifference.  At length the matron of the institution asked them to go with her, and they followed on, through halls and galleries, until they came to a room, the door of which she opened, with a silent indication for them to enter.

They entered alone.  Everything was hushed, and the silence that of the chamber of death.  In the centre of the room lay the old man.  A single glance told the fearful tale.  He was dead!  Dead in the pauper’s home!  Seven years before, a millionaire—­now sleeping his last sleep in the dead-room of an Alms-House, and his beggared wife and children weeping over him in heart-broken and hopeless sorrow.

From that time the energies of Mary and Anna seemed paralyzed; and it was only with a strong effort that Mrs. Graham could rouse herself from the stupor of mind and body that had settled upon her.

Mrs. Graham and her two daughters had nearly finished their evening meal, at the close of the day alluded to some pages back, when the sound of rapidly hurrying footsteps was heard on the pavement.  In a moment after, a heavy blow was given just at their door, and some one fell with a groan against it.  The weight of the body forced it open, and the son and brother rolled in upon the floor, with the blood gushing from a ghastly wound in his forehead.  His assailant instantly fled.  Bloated, disfigured, in coarse and worn clothing, how different, even when moving about, was he from the genteel, well-dressed young man of a few years back!  Idleness and dissipation had wrought as great a change upon him as it had upon his father, while he was living.  Now he presented a shocking and loathsome appearance.

The first impulse of Mary was to run for a physician, while the mother and Anna attempted to stanch the flow of blood, that had already formed a pool upon the floor.  Assistance was speedily obtained, and the wound dressed; but the young man remained insensible.  As the physician turned from the door, Mrs. Graham sank fainting upon her bed.  Over-tried nature could bear up no longer.

“Doctor, what do you think of him?” asked the mother, anxiously, three days after, as the physician came out of Alfred’s room.  Since the injury he had received, he had lain in a stupor, but with much fever.

“His case, Madam, is an extremely critical one.  I have tried in vain to control that fever.”

“Do you think him very dangerous, Doctor?” Mary asked, in a husky voice.

“I certainly do.  And, to speak to you the honest truth, have, myself, no hope of his recovery.  I think it right that you should know this.”

“No hope, Doctor!” Mrs. Graham said, laying her hand upon the physician’s arm, while her face grew deadly pale.  “No hope!—­My only son die thus  Doctor, can you not save him?”

“I wish it were in my power, Madam.  But I will not flatter you with false hopes.  It will be little less than a miracle should he survive.”

The mother and sisters turned away with an air of hopelessness from the physician, and he retired slowly, and with oppressed feelings.

When they returned to the sick chamber, a great change had already taken place in Alfred.  The prediction of the physician, it was evident to each, as all bent eagerly over him, was about to be too surely and too suddenly realized.  His face, from being slightly flushed with fever, had become sunken, and ghastly pale, and his respiration so feeble that it was almost imperceptible.

The last and saddest trial of this ruined family had come.  The son and brother, for whom now rushed back upon their hearts the tender and confiding affection of earlier years, was lingering upon life’s extremest verge.  It seemed that they could not give him up.  They felt that, even though he were neglectful of them, they could not do without him.  He was a son and brother; and, while he lived, there was still hope of his restoration.  The strength of that hope, entertained by each in the silent chambers of affection, was unknown before—­its trial revealed its power over each crushed and sinking heart.

But the passage of each moment brought plainer and more palpable evidence of approaching dissolution.  For about ten minutes he had lain so still, that they were suddenly aroused by the fear that he might be already dead Softly did the mother lay her hand upon his forehead.  Its cold and clammy touch sent an icy thrill to her heart Then she bent her ear to catch even the feeblest breath—­but she could distinguish none.

“He is dead!” she murmured, sinking down and burying her face in the bed-clothes.

The cup of their sorrow was, at last, full—­full and running over!